I will be master of what is mine own

For she is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

my household stuff, my fields, my barns,

my horse, my ox, my ass, my anything.

Last night I went out with a good friend from Chicago to Shakespeare's Globe Theatre in South Bank.  It's a replica of the original, architecturally and in experience (minus the b.o., cow dung, and rats). They were putting on a production of Taming of the Shrew, which I've never read and only seen done once before in an open air production in Cambridge back in 2008. I thought that production was quite good, but it paled in comparison to this one.

Taming of the Shrew, no matter how sensitively done, can't help but raise the heckles of any self-respecting modern woman.  The basic plot involves an arrogant, bullying, and somehow charming Petrucio who takes on the challenge of "taming" the headstrong, sharp-tongued, discontented young Katharina. He does this by physical abuse, starvation, and sleep deprivation, which turns her into a sweet-tempered, obedient, virtuous wife, declaring herself in a long speech about subservience and the superiority of man in mind and body ready to lick his boots in repayment of such a debt that all women have to their husbands:

And place your hands below your husband's foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

[cringe]

The other version I've seen played it fairly straight with an emphasis on the light-hearted.  I've heard of it being done with significant sado-masochistic subtext (i.e. Katharina's actually turned on by Petrucio's treatment). However, it turns out that the best way to do a production of Taming of the Shrew is to have an all-female cast.  I can't tell you how amazing this was. It put me at ease, I suppose, to have female misogynists, and these women were so good at what they do that there was no sacrifice of believe-ability in the story. And instead of playing the ending as a comedy, they played it as a tragedy. A weeping, broken Katharina finally submits completely to her unworthy husband, bringing herself (and the audience) to tears in the process, and the look of shock, shame, and self-disgust on his face when she attempts to kiss his boot is priceless.  And then they all came out and danced a jig.  

The costuming was really good...late 1920s summeresque...lots of tweed, boater hats, cricket uniforms, and aviator wear. And there was a lot of singing and horn-playing involved, including a little Adele clone. And seeing it at the Globe was a real treat because you are just so close to the action.  You  feel involved, somehow.  

It was brilliant.  The whole thing.  I'd go see it again tonight if my back wasn't still aching from standing in the yard for four hours.  It will be on tour in Oxford for most of July, and I may try to see it again while I am up there.  

Also...I have discovered Pimm's.